


There's No Explaining It

by petals42_tumblr (rosepetals42)



Series: Teen Wolf Tumblr Fics [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Gen, Just of the Sheriff briefly though so also canon, Of Stiles' Mother though so it is canon, Promise, The focus is on Stiles' relationship with Melissa McCall, it's cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 15:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7762747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosepetals42/pseuds/petals42_tumblr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>It comes up less and less as he grows up – not having a mother, that is. In 4th grade, everyone knows she’s sick (crazy, they whisper, Mrs. Stilinski has gone crazy) and when she dies, everyone knows that too and that’s okay because at least he doesn’t have to explain it.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>There’s no explaining it. Not really.</em>
</p>
<p>Stiles' mom died when he was ten years old. But that doesn't mean he grew up without a mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's No Explaining It

**Author's Note:**

> Who doesn't love some good old Stilinski Family Feels with a side of Freakin' Awesome Melissa McCall?

It comes up less and less as he grows up – not having a mother, that is. In 4thgrade, everyone knows she’s sick ( _crazy,_ they whisper, _Mrs. Stilinski has gone crazy_ ) and when she dies, everyone knows that too and that’s okay because at least he doesn’t have to _explain_ it.

There’s no explaining it. Not really.

*^*^*^

Stiles is in 3rd grade when his mother first gets confused and sends him to school with a paper bag containing a sandwich with only ketchup on it and nothing else. For some reason, he knows instinctively that this is _wrong_ , that it’s not funny and so he hides it from Scott and eats it quickly.

He says nothing to anyone. Not even a month later, when she packs him a peanut butter sandwich that he can’t eat at all.

To say it aloud would make it real.

But still. He knows.

He always has had a very perceptive eye for evil.

*^*^*^

He gets very good at lying.

Years later, his father will say “I haven’t believe a word that’s come out of Stiles’ mouth since he learned how to speak” and in part, that’s true (Stiles has always seen the benefit of twisting events), but in essence, it didn’t start when he learned to speak. It starts now.

It starts when he is nine and his mother sometimes forgets how to act like herself.

He lies to make her feel better; he lies to make sure his father doesn’t worry, isn’t distracted while on patrol; he lies to teachers, and coaches, and even Scott sometimes to make sure that _people don’t know_.

Above all, he lies to himself.

_It’s okay,_ he says when he has to give her directions home from the grocery store.

_This is normal_ , he insists when she starts forgetting to turn off the oven or stove so he starts checking.

_It’s just a phase,_ he assures himself. _She’ll get better._

*^*^*^

She doesn’t, of course.

She gets worse. _It_ gets worse. There are things, moments that happen ( _I’m sorry, who are you? Get away from me! Get out of my house!)_ that Stiles doesn’t let himself think about.

She finally goes to the doctor. And Stiles had always believed doctors fixed people but they don’t fix her.

*^*^*^

Stiles’ father has always worked long hours – has to, really – and when she dies, he starts drinking and there is some confusion as to how long the sympathy casseroles will last.

For the record, it’s almost three weeks.

That’s how long it takes before Stiles comes home from Scott’s house ( _he’d lied. He’d said his dad would be home at 5 today- it’s the only way Scott will let him out of his sight but sometimes it’s nice to be as alone as he feels)_ , opens the fridge and sees nothing.

He isn’t sure what he was expecting. There had only been a sliver of a Shepard’s pie left (it’s disgusting and Stiles hates it) but he’d somehow expected it to still be there.

He’s ten and his mom is dead and his father spends his nights off drinking silently at his desk and it’s not a big deal in the scheme of life but…

But there’s no food in the fridge.

He stares at it for a long time, feeling something hovering on the edge of his awareness, a bubble of something in his chest that wants to burst out, but-

It hits hard and fast, before he’s ready for it.

He gasps and shudders and sinks to the ground and his mom is dead and she won’t be there to cook and she’s not coming back, not ever, and she’s gone.

She is gone and she will _always_ be gone.

When asked, he will say that this was his first panic attack. But at the moment, it doesn’t seem like panic. Panic is illogical and destruction and overreaction.

And this… this doesn’t feel like panic.

It’s just realization.

*^*^*^

He calms down eventually. He grabs some stale cereal and eats it in fistfuls out of the box and goes to sleep. As always, he opens one eye when his father gets home and comes in to give him a kiss on the forehead. And then he does it again, when his father comes in two hours later, though this time, the smell of whiskey wakes him before the hand across his head.

In the morning, he wakes up and runs to pick up the glass and empty bottle his father leaves on his desk and then he runs back to crawl into his bed so he can pretend his dad has the honor of waking him up to get ready for school.

Even though that used to be his mom’s job.

They’re getting by- him and his dad. They’ve been preparing for this, after all. It’s awkward and silent and they don’t talk about it or her but they’re okay.

“Gonna have to pick up some groceries, huh, buddy,” his dad says as he opens the fridge and comes to the same conclusion Stiles had last night.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “But I’m staying over at Scott’s tonight, remember? So no rush.”

His father blinks. “It’s Friday already?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, squirming. He can see the information hit his father ( _three weeks ago, my wife died. My wife is dead and it has already been three weeks)_ and wishes it was still nighttime, that he could still pretend to be asleep.

“Huh,” his father says, clearing his throat. “Okay, I’ll go tomorrow morning then. Grab the basics. Milk, eggs, bread… maybe a couple jars of tomato sauce?”

Stiles nods, wishing he knew how to answer the question mark at the end of his dad’s sentence.

*^*^*^

He’ll figure it out, he decides.

He and Scott sometimes sit at the island while Mrs. McCall cooks because Scott likes to tell her all the things they learned at school and Mrs. McCall sometimes has cool stories from the hospital. And Stiles likes that she always answers his questions and tries to make sure Scott doesn’t say anything too revealing about their lunchtime adventures and he likes swinging his feet back and forth.

Now though, he watches.

He lets Scott tell all the stories and doesn’t let himself get distracted by tales of medical mysteries and instead, he tries to memorize what order Mrs. McCall throws ingredients into the pan and how she manages to measure out what spices she uses and at what time she lowers the flame of the stove so things don’t burn.

They survive off scrambled eggs and sandwiches for a while, and then the next week Stiles gives his father a grocery list and manages to make spaghetti. He claims it’s fun, that it’s like experimenting in science class and he sees his dad panic for a little bit, sees the guilt, but he lays it on thick – _I just love it, Dad. I really do. It’s awesome! You get to use fire!_ And in the end, his dad agrees. Buys everything he puts on the list and buys way too much of it, so when he does end up ruining dishes the first time around, he still has enough.

He hates cooking, really, but he likes that his dad always eats what he makes and so he watches. Tries to get better.

He is 99% sure that Mrs. McCall knows.

She never says anything. Not directly. But she starts sort of narrating what she’s doing ( _annnd time to dump in the kale_ ) and casually warning them about what to watch out for ( _Life lesson- chicken always has to be cooked all the way through. No such thing as a medium-rare chicken)._

“Here,” she tells him a few months later, passing over a specific brand of chili powder. “Tell your dad to put a pinch of this in if he ever makes homemade salsa.”

She doesn’t wink, doesn’t smile but Stiles thinks she knows all the same.

*^*^*^

So, he learns to cook through Mrs. McCall.

Scott is the first one to know about his panic attacks because he witnesses one, but Mrs. McCall is the first person he tells. She is the one who explains to both him and Scott what to do, who tells his dad, who doesn’t force him to go to a psychologist when he digs his heels in and says _no_ but does have him talk unofficially with one of her friends from the hospital.

When he throws up at school and his dad is at a crash site an hour away, she is the one who picks him up. She brings him to her house and lets him watch cartoons and makes him soup.

She takes his temperature in his ear rather than under his tongue, but it’s still a relief to know that someone is there to take it.

Really, she is just… there. Even though she also works full time and more often than not, he and Scott are left to their own devices, the McCall household stays… warm. His own house is too quiet and too large and he thinks maybe his dad’s drinking is getting worse and it’s _cold_ somehow.

Mrs. McCall is never cold.

*^*^*^

He worries he’s replacing her, replacing _his mother_ and that freaks him out for a long time. He accidentally calls her “mom” once and then doesn’t talk to her for two weeks to make up for it.

It feels wrong and he feels guilty but when he finally goes to Scott’s house and tries to apologize, she just wraps him in a hug and offers him a bowl of ice cream.

*^*^*^

She is the one who finds out about his dad eventually.

He and Scott lose track of time one Wednesday night, almost a year after his mom died and night has fallen.

“Hey, Stiles,” Mrs. McCall says, fighting down a yawn as she pokes her head in Scott’s room (their room). “Are you sleeping over tonight? I’m so sorry, I don’t think I can-” she stops as another yawn hits her. “Don’t think I can drive you back.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Stiles says, waving a hand without looking up. “I’ll walk home.”

“You’re not even twelve and it’s dark out,” Mrs. McCall replies, turning. “Call your dad and have him pick you up.”

Stiles goes still, even though he doesn’t mean to.

It’s after 9pm. His dad has probably been off since 7. ( _And, crap, he should have been home. He always tries to make himself go home when he dad is there._ )

More importantly, he knows what that means. His dad will be under no condition to drive.

“No, that’s alright,” he says, hoping he sounds causal. “It’s only a twenty minute walk.”

“I am not going back to the Emergency Room because you get hit by a car in the middle of the night,” Mrs. McCall says. “I’m off. Done with nursing. Call your father. I’ll go grab you the phone.”

“No, really,” he says, dropping the controller and standing. If he runs off into the night, she won’t be able to stop him. “I-I’m okay. Thanks, though. Goodnight!”

He’s not sure when, but this has become something he lies about. Something he hides.

Maybe it’s just habit at this point. A lesson he learned too well: You keep strange things private. Don’t tell people. Don’t worry them.

( _The doctors couldn’t help. They didn’t fix her._ )

And it’s not a big deal. So what if his dad drinks a few glasses of whiskey on the nights when he’s actually off work? It’s nighttime. He’s an adult. Adults are allowed to do that. It’s not like he does anything else. Nothing bad. He just sits and drinks and sometimes passes out at the desk, sometimes lets Stiles help him to his bed, sometimes whispers that he misses his wife in a hushed tone that Stiles doesn’t think he’s meant to hear.

He’s always up and ready for work the next day and the amount of Jameson doesn’t decrease during the day (Stiles checks) so it’s okay. It’s not a big deal.

But he also can’t pick Stiles up right now. Stiles is very careful never to ask.

He’s focused on struggling into his shoes so he doesn’t notice right away that Mrs. McCall hasn’t moved. Next to him, Scott is carefully looking down.

(Scott knows. Of course he does. But Scott only knows what Stiles told him. He only knows it’s not a big deal.)

When Stiles finally looks up and sees Mrs. McCall standing there, Stiles realizes instantly that he’s made a mistake.

It was probably throwing down the controller before finishing the race. He and Scott never do that.

“Um, or actually,” he says, flushing. “Actually, I’ll just stay here tonight? Is that okay, Scott?” He hadn’t been planning on it, hadn’t brought his pillow but-

“Yeah!” Scott pipes up helpfully. “Yeah, you totally should. We already finished our homework and everything, Mom!”

“Stiles,” Mrs. McCall says, sounding like she is putting things in place. “Go get in the car.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles tries, feeling too warm. “You’re tired. Really, I can-”

“Stiles,” she interrupts. “Car. Now. Yes, Scott, you can come too.”

They are out the door in a heartbeat, Mrs. McCall only pausing to grab something from a hallway closet that she proceeds to throw in the passenger seat next to her.

_It’s not a big deal,_ Stiles wants to say. _He’s not a bad dad. He’s just- he just_ misses _her and sometimes I don’t think I miss her enough and it’s okay. I promise it’s okay._

He doesn’t say anything though. Because as they get closer to his house, he feels a sense of dread that has become familiar. His house is where he has to remember. Where it’s silence and stillness and a _hole_ that he doesn’t know how to fill.

Of course, there is a part of him that is still hoping he will be able to hop out of the car and run in the door and that will be the end of it.

It’s not. Mrs. McCall turns off the ignition and reaches to grab the thing in the passenger seat, which turns out to be a duffel.

“Help Stiles pack a bag,” she tells Scott. “Remember your pillow, sweetie.”

There’s not a question of arguing. Because, usually, Mrs. McCall is warm but now she’s fire.

Stiles doesn’t hear most of it, too busy standing a little numbly at the door of his bedroom while Scott packs for him. He accepts the pillow that Scott hands him and tries to decide if he feels horrified or relieved.

*^*^*^

He stays with the McCall’s for four days. On Sunday afternoon, his father arrives to pick him up and his eyes are red but not from alcohol and he even smells different, smells like he used to and-

“I’m so sorry,” his father says, pulling him in a hug that it’s entirely too tight and not at all painful. “Stiles, I-”

“It’s okay,” Stiles replies. “Really, Dad, it’s- I’m-”

His dad hushes him and they don’t talk about it, not exactly, but Stiles feels they come to an understanding anyway.

That week, his father finally takes the leave that the whole force had tried to get him to take when his wife died.

It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.

*^*^*^

Mrs. McCall is even more fierce after that.

Stiles gets the sex talk right along with Scott and yelled at right along with Scott (sometimes without Scott) and she groans when Scott first gives him a key, but she has three keys made when she updates the locks their freshmen year.

“My boys,” is the phrase she starts using.

When they finally give up and call the plumber and both he and Scott are there, soaking wet, that’s how she puts it. _Come on in, these are my boys, Scott and Stiles. They may have made your job a lot harder._

When they go to a restaurant to celebrate Stiles’ birthday because his dad had been called into work: _Just three please, just me and my boys._

When she stomps into school because they are in detention again and she is listed as Stiles’ emergency contact: _Alright, what have the boys done now?_

He likes it. It doesn’t have the quite the same connotation as _son_ and he doesn’t have to worry that Scott will resent him. Not that Stiles really thinks he would, but sometimes, when Mrs. McCall buys them an equal amount of Christmas presents or serves them the same portion of food even when it’s Scott’s favorite or lets him pick the movie they watch, he wonders…

“Boys” is good. “Boys” is more than neutral but less than confirmation.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t have an equivalent. He tries out all the possible combinations cautiously, goes from “basically my aunt” to “my spirit guide” to “like a dear older sister” (he gets smacked for that one.)

None of them stick though. They come out like a joke or not enough. But anything too close to mother feels disrespectful. He can’t even bring himself to say “my second mom” because that seems to imply he has a first.

Which he doesn’t. Or he did but now he doesn’t. Maybe he should still feel like he does.

He doesn’t know. So it’s confusing. Even in his own head, he gets mixed up sometimes. In his dreams, Mrs. McCall almost always plays the role of his mother and he gets stabs of guilt when he looks through old family photos and-

_She’s not my mom_ , he reminds himself sometimes. Because she’s not, but she’s… she’s something.

*^*^*^

When it is time for their prom, she takes both him and Scott to pick out their tuxes and insists on taking pictures of both of them.

And then, before the dance, she insists on taking pictures _with_ both of them. And then even when Stiles manages to curl away from her arm so she and Scott can have one alone, he finds himself in a solo picture with her two seconds later.

_This is such a cute picture of you and your mom!_ The woman tells him when he goes to have it framed.

It makes him feel weird, like he’s lying or taking something that’s not his, but he doesn’t correct her.

*^*^*^

Luckily, he doesn’t have to define it much. Especially after he turns 18 and he no longer has to fill in permission forms that always seem to ask for two signatures that he doesn’t have.

Besides, by then he’s long used to it, to being the kid without a mom. He gets good at saying the phrase “My mom died when I was young” at college orientation and accepting people’s pitying faces. He gets quicker at tacking on “I’m really close to my best friend’s mom though” because that makes the pity stop sooner.

And it’s true. And in general, he’s fine. He’s finally an adult. Finally past the age when he is automatically expected to have a mom.

In truth, he doesn’t think about it. Not because he tried to forget, but because that’s life. You move on even when you don’t mean to.

*^*^*^

Of course, there still are a few moments.

When Scott marries Kira, they do a Mother-Son dance and for some reason that hits him hard. He’s sitting right next to Scott’s empty seat and he keeps a smile on his face because he knows he’ll be in the background of pictures but there’s a swooping feeling in the pit of his stomach.

_She’s gone and she’ll always be gone._

It’s a fact he’s known since he was eleven years old but even now, ten years later, it stings.

She won’t be there. She won’t meet Derek or be proud of him or dance with him to a completely cheesy song like Wind Beneath my Wings (Stiles had _told_ Scott it was too much but Scott insisted). She won’t look up at him and smile or throw back her head as he tries to spin her and fails. People won’t cover their hearts with their hands as they pass or blink back tears because _they_ are blinking back tears (Scott more than his mom, to be honest) or-

They just won’t get to dance.

And he wants to. Even though he’s not sure he remembers the sound of her laugh.

He jumps a little when a hand slides into his, too lost in the way Mrs. McCall and Scott are grinning at each other to realize that Derek has moved closer.

Derek.

Who understands more than anyone. Who has it even worse than Stiles.

Derek’s hand squeezes around his fingers and he squeezes back.

It’s not okay, but he is.

*^*^*^

Three years later, he and Derek get married. It’s a ceremony that’s much bigger than they originally planned and Stiles isn’t that surprised but Derek looks honestly amazed when they finally sit down to make a list.

He’s the one who insists on inviting everyone though – from all Stiles’ old college friends, to all the police officers on the force, to anyone who so much as expresses some amount of joy that they are getting together.

Mrs. McCall submits a list of her closest friends from the hospital. There is no question they will all be invited.

Even Stiles is alarmed at how many come.

Still, the wedding is going off without a hitch. They’ve said their vows and taken a thousand pictures and Derek keeps blushing and smiling when he tries to scowl and Stiles only stepped on his foot three times during their First Dance and so-

It’s going smoothly.

Too smoothly.

“And now,” their MC says as he and Derek head to the table, Stiles a beat behind because he had to stop and be lifted into the air for the sixth time today by Scott. “For the Mother-Son dance!”

Something in Stiles’ chest seizes.

They must’ve forgotten to tell him they aren’t _doing_ a Mother-Son dance. That even through there are _two_ grooms, there are no mothers.

The truth of that statement hurts, but he doesn’t feel it over the panic in his gut. God, this is the last thing that Derek needed today, Derek, who doesn’t even have a father, who-

Who is turning and smiling at him.

Maybe he didn’t hear.

“Dude,” Stiles hisses, hoping the photographer knows not to take pictures of this particular moment. “We must have forgotten to tell him-”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts, reaching for his hand and pulling him closer. “I think you have to go dance.”

“Derek, what are you-?”

Derek grabs him and spins him.

Mrs. McCall is standing there.

She is wearing the deep purple dress that she had made both him and Scott go with her to try on and her makeup is elegant and she is gorgeous and she is smiling at him.

He gapes at her, flushing more red than he ever has in his life.

This isn’t- He can’t- She wouldn’t want to-

“I told them we should give you some warning first,” she says, reaching out her hand but stopping short of grabbing him. “But Derek wanted it to be a surprise.”

He is still just standing there. Speechless.

He might be dangerously close to tears and he can’t exactly say why.

“Is this okay?” she asks, touching his shoulder like she has a thousand times. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I just- I really would be honored, Stiles. But if you-”

“No,” he says quickly. “I mean, yes, I-”

He glances at Scott then, worried as always that Scott will somehow resent him for this. That Scott wants to be an only child and that he won’t want pictures of Stiles with his mother and-

Those thoughts fly out of his head because Scott is jumping up and down with excitement, phone already out to record the whole thing.

If he blushes any harder, he might explode.

“Um, yes,” he says, feeling stupidly happy. “That would be great.”

She laughs then, joyful and loud across the room and that must give the MC the sign he needs to actually start playing the music, though Stiles doesn’t even hear the first few notes.

He is too busy trying to rearrange his face to something less touched.

He meets Derek’s eyes one more time, worried that this isn’t fair, that it was better when they both skipped this but Derek is grinning at him, his own eyes looking a little wet – but not with sorrow- and then Lydia is marching up to him and pulling him into a dance and-

He looks back towards Mrs. McCall, who is smiling at him, all soft and proud and her eyes are misty, just like they were when she danced with Scott and it hits him again, how _lucky_ he is to have her, how she didn’t have to do it – any of it – didn’t have to come to his lacrosse games even when Scott couldn’t play because of his asthma, didn’t have to help move him into his college dorm room, didn’t have to yell at him every time he deserved it.

She didn’t have to dance with him.

“Thank you,” he says, ducking his head so maybe the photographer won’t see that he is no longer dangerously close to tears. That he may have tipped over. “I, uh-”

“Stiles,” she says, pulling him in for a hug. “I love you.”

They’re not really dancing. It’s more like she’s holding him together as she has so often in the past, but she rocks them back and forth so Stiles decides it counts.

“I love you and I’m proud of you.”

Stiles hates that Scott has this on video. This is going to be so embarrassing to watch later.

“But try not to step on my feet,” she says, laughing as she steps away.

He grins and they dance and he only steps on her feet twice.

She still laughs the whole time.

And there’s no explaining it.

Not really.

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
